Diary of a Heretic

Hypocrites

The ground was already soft. Royce had designed a school building to go up in three stages, over three summers. If he started now, a crew of six could finish the first wing by September. But Dale Janda, who ran the equipment company, had phoned last night claiming the only available back-hoe had died. Not worth fixing.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Trevor and Polly were drinking coffee and eating raisin bread on her deck. Polly pestered him less about sex when he brought breakfast. The air was warm; the morning sunlight filtered through dense woods.

His cell phone rang and Polly swooped over him. “Who is it? Lauren? Jazmine? I’ll talk.”

It was Royce. Polly noticed the name and shoved the phone back at Trevor, who flipped it open. “Greetings, mon.” He nodded. “I-yah gone already.”

Royce sat in his truck. “I think Janda mixed up his schedule. Can’t hurt to look.” Passing the college security guard and the police car, Royce drove Trevor out of town, onto a dirt road.

“Do your daughters like Asheville, Royce? They like Asheville?”

“They’re barely teenagers, Trevor.”

“Royce, me brudda. I never hurt young girls. Not once. You cut me, thinking so.”

“My little girls are off limits.”

“Since the mania started,” Trevor said. “I-sire to love one lady only, if I could find someone right.”

“That so?”

“Truth or kill me dead. One girl, then another and another leaves me heart and soul unprotected.”

Dale Janda worked in a double-wide trailer covered with panels of fake wood. Royce parked half a mile away because of the mud.

Leaving their boots at the door, Royce and Trevor sat in plastic chairs. Janda said, “Can’t give you what I don’t got.”

Trevor raised his finger, signaling just a minute. He opened the trailer door and stared outside; covered his mouth and stared at acres of mud beneath a white sky. “Call your guys in Raleigh.”

Janda shook his head. “How’d you?”

“Just check.”

Janda tapped his computer. He flipped open his cell, and turning his back, mumbled awhile.

Swiveling to face them, he shrugged. “Turns out our deep-digger is free. Mike will operate it. ”

“Tell him to call me tonight,” Royce said. Remaining seated, Janda extended his hand, which Royce and Trevor shook.

Once inside the college, Royce drove straight onto the field. He wanted to shovel along the boundaries.

Polly was teaching her watercolor class near the site and called to Trevor. “There’s an extra easel here.”

Trevor didn’t do watercolors. But Polly shrieked. “You didn’t stay for breakfast. Try something that’s not so easy for you.” Polly got the paper, paints, and brushes and set the easel opposite Hailey.

Everybody was painting spring flowers. But Polly told Trevor, “Paint Hailey. And Hailey, try painting Trevor.”

Hailey laughed. “Like painting a rainbow that comes and goes.”

Trevor couldn’t look at Hailey. He couldn’t not-look at her. Every muscle in his feet went into spasms. Then fire burned inside him. It raged, brighter than anything on earth. Flames shot from his eyes. Closing them was agony but the light was terrifying.

Polly said, “You don’t need to paint each other painting.”

Trevor said, “Whatever I paint is for Hailey only. Nobody else can see.”

“Fine,” Polly said. “Providing you paint something.”

Trevor painted, “Don’t tell Brian.” Just this much took him time. Finally, he tore the page from the pad and rolled it up. Handing it to Hailey, he said, “My brother is me eyes and ears. My sight and sound.”

Then he hastened up a steep side path, separate from the trail leading to the cabins. It stopped halfway up the mountain.

(Click here to read the next episode)

Want More

Brian and Hailey had lived together for seven months and flowing ripples still stirred the air surrounding her. Brian remained enthralled. Before, he had respected his lovers, behaved kindly, but kept a decent emotional distance. After a punishing childhood exacted by a brutish father, Brian sought relief on level ground. This wasn’t difficult. Until this past year, his limited life had not required him to ascend heights or investigate valleys.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Yet he would do anything for Trevor, then and now. Steadying his brother whenever he slipped was Brian’s primary, if covert, accomplishment. He had studied hard to break away from his miserable home, and when he did, Trevor soon followed. When Trevor’s fun-loving personality beguiled people, Brian felt happier and prouder than he imagined—no matter how often it happened.

And when eighteen-year-old Trevor had run off to Jamaica for five years, Brian had grieved until he could not stand it. The grief never truly let up. So that last year, when Trevor phoned from an Asheville bar, needing a job and a place to stay, Brian had panicked, his mind braced for incalculable pain.

Instead, though, his brother had nimbly created for Brian a life so rewarding he had never thought to wish for it. Trevor the prophet and unintended cult figure, and the fun-loving (but Hailey said lonely) lover amazed his brother.

Without this new found certainty, Brian might not have abandoned all restraint with Hailey. But Trevor had assured him she would never stray or betray him—no need to hold back.

And Trevor? What good was worrying? For all Brian’s anxiety, the here-then-gone alluring trickster escaped harm, while Brian knocked himself out establishing the Arts Consortium.

Thirty-five students were enrolled for the summer; forty for the fall. Brian had signed Barry Barton to start a theatre department and Chester Thompson to take over the dance program.

Hailey still painted with Hollis Clarke but after performing at the winter festival she had discovered dance mattered more. During the day, she was as busy as Brian.

She appeared luminous and boundless. Yet she suffered frequent nightmares, waking clammy and frightened. “I watch powerless as evil clouds engulf Trevor.”

Brian acknowledged that Trevor was fending off hordes of seekers. “But Angelina’s hired ’round-the-clock gatekeepers.”

“You know what I think?” Hailey peered straight into Brian’s eyes, not joking. “Trevor’s fixed it so you cannot worry about him. Some kind of trickery.”

Brian nodded. “Possibly.” Premonitions of Trevor’s injuries used to be his one psychic skill. The absence of anxiety, so liberating at first, had progressed to a prickly numbness. “Except Trevor hasn’t fallen lately. Nothing’s hit him on the head, even though Royce has started the main school building.”

“If he’s not hiding something, why won’t he come to dinner?”

“I don’t know, Hailey. He just says he cannot. Without explanation.”

“Starting this week, we’re both going to the Saturday concerts. Thank goodness he’s not doing Fridays.”

“Maybe Trevor’s studying for his finals,” Brian said. “His teachers have both pulled me aside to say he has perfect test scores.”

“Wonder if he checks his answers inside those astonishing bursts of light.”

“Hailey, you know it doesn’t work like that.”

“He told me one way he can sometimes see ahead is by starting at the beginning. And every night I dream that he’s in danger. Evil beings come for him out of nowhere.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Stand Alone

Rescue a lost kitten and then the furry little thing’s your responsibility. After I coaxed Polly’s wandering soul back to her suffering body, my eyes lit upon Crescent before thinking through what happens when a silly girl befriends a crazy fool.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Practically right away, while Polly got cleaned up and she and Crescent indulged in their spa treatments, an ultraviolet light surrounded me. I had to hang onto the treadmill, for the scenes spiraling through me blood and guts.

Obviously, Polly was always gonna need more love than she was ever gonna get. Anyone could see that, without so much as a speck of supernatural light. Not a rare thing, though, so I didn’t think twice.

But if I had? Chances are, I would have known Polly and Crescent were whispering about what kisses feel like. Their girly chatty-chatty would have rammed straight through me, when Crescent described what she calls “special kisses,” the ones when I bow between her legs!

Dear Lord, please save ya fren’ Trevor from the fire. Jah gave me a marvelous gift, but that night I forgot to use it. Otherwise, I’d have taken sweet, teenage Lauren instead of feisty Crescent. Well before Crescent and Polly appeared, their hair bleached white and teased into spikes, I knew—everything was crashin’.

To keep peace, and because Crescent always gets me to go along, I haven’t turned away from her. We get together, just us, ’bout once a week. But the rule is, we visit Polly separately. I’d prefer it if Crescent left Polly alone, but they’re true friends.

For all that, Angelina has saved me all this while from never-ending woes. Angelina can control Polly, more or less.

All I can do is fend her off for half an hour. Without exercising my bitty patience, how am I gonna get through fresh struggles? Gotta have loving-kindness, self-control, and upful ganja to vanish when necessary. An I’m not talking here ’bout Polly or Trevor-mania, which are nothing. No special sight required to realize certain dread desires are wrong to the fullment. Suddenly, I’ve got crosses staked into the ground wherever I step.

So, to keep the peace and flex me manners, I go to Polly’s at nine. Or else, within five minutes, she’s screaming at me gates. Either way, she pulls me inside her cabin, drops her bathrobe, straddles my lap, and pushes her tongue in my ear. Things Crescent does. So that Polly’s making me wearier of Crescent than I was growing alone. Still, feel no way, ’cause everything’s ready. Crescent’s moving to New Jersey next semester.

And at least Polly listens to me. “Nice up,” I say. “Put your newest dress on for me.”

No need to front appreciation. Polly sews very pretty dresses. Little later, though, before I can finally step away, she’s crying loud tears. “You love all the women, Trevor. All but me.”

“Well, that’s not right, Polly. Not all women. Besides, there’s all kinds of love.”

“Forget love and just gimme sex.”

“It’s not for everyone,” I tell her. “Like, um, guava jelly. Maybe someone will ask you to try it. Maybe not. But so what? You’ve got whole heaps of jams and jellies so.”

She shakes her head so vehemently her beret falls off. Polly and Crescent both wear berets now that their peroxide’s growing out. “Everybody has sex. Why not me?”

“You probably will when the time’s right. It has to come without pressure. Do you and Angelina ever talk about this?”

“Shut up, Trevor. Go away.”

Then at last, Polly shoves me out the door. It’s kinda the same deal every day. I’d like to discuss the whole business with Angelina. But it’s too rude, nuh true?

(Click here to read the next episode)

Reaction

Hailey wanted to apologize. She had yelled at Trevor when Polly slashed Ya-Ya’s tires. “Ya-Ya and Kaya and I were mad at the wrong person,” she told Brian. But she couldn’t get Trevor to make eye contact.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Kaya saw Trevor every day. And she saw Ya-Ya, who locked the boutique at lunchtime and drove to the Asheville campus, eager for Trevor’s love between his classes.

“But with me,” Hailey told Brian, “he sees me coming and turns around.”

“That can’t be true. Or, it’s a coincidence. I’ll ask him to dinner,” Brian said. “You’ll see. He loves you, Hailey. You know that.”

Truth was, Trevor chose Hailey for Brian, a set-up that had plagued Brian until recently. Brian had loved Hailey on sight, beyond reservation. Yet Trevor’s initiative or whatever was behind him saying Hailey was Brian’s one love, made him queasy, practically sick.

Both Trevor and Hailey denied it had happened the way Brian imagined. Trevor had not “taken Hailey for a test run.” Rather, without lying or misleading her, he had lived with her until he discovered that Hailey and Brian—not him—were born for each other. And he was right.

The next morning, when the brothers ran together, Brian said, “Hailey and I never see you,” and invited him to dinner.

Trevor said he was busy. “There’s Polly and fending off the crazies that are ruining the band and me studies.”

“That’s why we miss you, Trev. Sunday dinner—you gotta eat.”

He said thanks anyway, but he couldn’t do it.

“Hailey thinks you haven’t forgiven her for yelling at you. That you see her differently than Kaya and Ya-Ya.”

“Not so, Brian. I-and-I don’t get angry. Nuh true? Name one time.”

Brian paused, searching for an answer. And Trevor changed the subject. “One more month for me Chapel Hill application. When it’s ready, will ya look at it? Make sure everything’s cris.”

No need to ask. Trevor’s desire to get a college degree—in astronomy no less—pleased Brian no end.

His inordinate, lifelong love for Trevor—so that Brian was often happier seeing that Trevor was happy than feeling his own ephemeral emotion—used to weigh on him without relief. Now that love had grown wings. It soared between heaven and earth. Brian agreed with Angelina; Trevor hadn’t just grown up this year. He had worked miracles.

Resurrecting Polly when she was curled inside a hollow tree—nobody but Trevor could have accomplished that. Nobody else would have even suspected where she was. The woman still raged in fits, but Angelina shrugged, so what? That’s the way Polly was, limited, fragile, and occasionally furious.

Brian checked himself. He didn’t say it might be good for Trevor to get away from the Consortium and Asheville, much as everybody loved him. Who was Brian to make suggestions to Trevor, who saw the future more clearly than most people saw the present?

Brian waited for Trevor to bring up the Avalon. Yesterday, the manager had asked Awake to play both Friday and Saturday nights. With Trevor on stage and his growing, ecstatic following, everyone was making huge money. Brian knew about the new schedule, because Hailey’s brothers, Marvin and Leon, were worried Trevor wouldn’t agree to it.

And he didn’t. Trevor wasn’t doing Friday nights. Earle was the one who tried to talk him into it. He’d seen pocomanias come and go. Awake should ride the wave while it lasted. And danced in homage to him.

“I came up with a suggestion everybody liked, though,” Trevor said. “They’re going to do Fridays like my birthday when I was in Florida. “Jazmine will sing, and the band will perform while videos of me play on da screens.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Small Axe

Angelina’s conscience had deserted her. That’s all she could think, after disregarding Polly all these months. For almost two years Polly’s quirky companionship had saved Angelina from loneliness. And at the time her angry phases hadn’t seemed dangerous or strange. They matched her sensitive nature, which Angelina had found poetic and romantic. All of which was in tune with their unconsummated, unformed love.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

But when Kaya wanted Angelina back, they had abandoned everything, and everyone, indulging each other’s lust for almost a week. Still elated, they returned home to their blossoming art community without repercussion. Angelina never offered Polly an explanation, because Polly wasn’t worldly enough to demand one.

Now Angelina realized she had turned her back on Polly, leaving her nowhere to go but her sister’s. So rapt with the Arts Consortium, which mirrored her family’s lost paradise, Angelina just forgot about Polly—even during the weeks after Trevor had rescued her from an animal’s existence.

After the slashed-tire incident, Angelina told the community that those upset by Polly must accept her. And twice a week, she invited Polly to watch DVDs with her and Kaya after dinner. If Polly remembered fighting with Kaya, “the rat,” she didn’t show it. Since Polly often couldn’t follow a movie’s plot, Kaya said, “Just count the times the actors repeat dirty words.”

Polly loved that and kept them informed. But she also muttered threats about Trevor’s lovers, and for some reason, Hailey. Angelina wondered if she mistook Brian for Trevor, but she didn’t. And even though Polly knew Crescent sometimes spent the night with Trevor, she called Crescent her best friend.

“Crescent tells me secrets. Things nobody knows.”

If Trevor didn’t visit Polly every morning, she knocked on his door and screamed, “Whatever bitch is in there deserves to die!” Then Trevor had to appear, walk her back to her cabin, and calm her down. Once she was quiet, Trevor said, “I care about you, Polly. Truth. But I don’t belong to you. Or anyone.”

After a few weeks, Polly began ranting during the DVDs. She hated Trevor’s girlfriends and they were always at his cabin. Always. Kaya would turn up the sound and Polly would rant louder until Angelina said, “Time to go home, Polly. I’ll stay a while and make lemonade.”

Despite all this, Angelina saw improvement. She lugged Polly’s sewing machine to her cabin and took her shopping for fabrics. In practically no time, Polly created colorful, cleverly tailored dresses. Ya-Ya sold them in the boutique without knowing who made them. She was afraid of Polly and even told Angelina to lock up the axe they used for chopping bonfire wood. Brian had already taken care of it, perhaps at Hailey’s suggestion. She and Ya-Ya got together often.

Trevor set firm restrictions for Polly—or else she couldn’t live there. Sundays, he insisted, were his own time. In fact, all the time was his own time, but if Polly wanted to see him at all, she needed to be patient. “Honor and trust,” he said. Angelina and Kaya agreed. “That’s how people get along, Polly. There’s no other way.”

The thing about Sundays—Polly knew and fumed in silence—was that Trevor spent all morning with Angelina and Kaya. He brought special coffee and homemade muffins and they read the newspaper and enjoyed each other, and Polly was not included. It made her mad.

Then Angelina said that if Polly wanted, she could launder the college bedding on Sunday mornings. She used to do the laundry when she lived with Angelina, back when the Consortium was a vacation lodge. Polly didn’t mind the idea. Because if she did the bed sheets, it meant she could walk anywhere she wanted—except to Angelina’s.

(Click here to read the next episode)

So Much Trouble in the World

Jacob and Earle were smoking near the botanical sheds as Trevor stepped up, still in his running clothes. Nice and warm for April, they agreed, as sweat beaded on Trevor’s pale skin. Jacob asked why a myalman like Trevor couldn’t grow decent weed.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

The more Jacob taught him, the littler his crops. “I-yah toss your dege plants into the woods.”

Earle passed the spliff, for which Trevor dearly thanked him. Being crucial to the band, Earle knew Trevor’s situation. “I-and-I praying hard,” Trevor said, hoping to reassure him. “Gotta quash the mania and so the band can play right. While catching studies in Asheville…”

“Not to mention all those women.” Jacob ducked under a canvas flap and pulled out a special ounce for Trevor. “Upful an restful together.”

“Irie. ’Cause the women make so much trouble.” Trevor sucked hard, since Crescent, who was waiting with breakfast, couldn’t smoke a bit without going crazy. “Like Polly. An her ignorant soul.”

They smoked awhile and Trevor said, “More time.”

Jacob said, “Ises,” praying to Jah. But it was Earle’s good-bye that gave Trevor pause: “Be careful, dready.”

Hurrying home, Trevor decided Earle must have gotten the expression from his students. “Be careful” was the same as “take care;” same as “see ya later.” Still, Jacob prayed for him. But then Trevor might have that wrong—long time since he was in Jamaica.

Crescent’s habitual greeting, when Trevor wasn’t obviously with another woman, was to leap onto him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist. He loved that. Usually, it was the prelude to making love, wherever they could hold it down. This morning he staggered under her weight. Maybe he was weak from running. No, that was a lie. Polly had copied the move. At least she didn’t see it as a prelude. But prying her off wasn’t easy.

He dropped with Crescent onto the couch, kissed and then tickled her, saying how sweaty and hungry he was.

“Good,” Crescent tugged his braids. “I’m making French toast.”

Trevor’s mouth was full; he was swallowing a sweet, sticky lump when he saw Brian and Hailey walking hand in hand to Angelina’s meeting. Hailey was wearing denim shorts and the sandals they had all worn last summer. He couldn’t help catching the gleam from her coppery skin. Or those long smooth legs and tiny ears. Her gliding stride. She was delighted by something Brian had just said, laughing and tugging his sleeve. So Jah know—what on earth could he do? The cabin walls were glass. Trevor couldn’t help seeing Hailey laugh and skip beside his brother.

Funny little Crescent said, “Looks like the meeting is starting. We should hang out with Polly.”

“True. Polly’s always easier around you, Cres.”

Trevor already knew Angelina was talking about community. And how if you were blessed with love, contentment, and health, extend those blessings to benefit your brothers and sisters. If artists were suffering jealousy or frustration, the community should show compassion. Polly wouldn’t have slashed Ya-Ya’s tires if they had kept her in mind as one-love. Angelina should have soothed Polly’s jealousy first thing after taking up with Kaya. Of course, Kaya wasn’t the one Polly was jealous of now. If those at the table were afraid of Polly, Angelina accepted that. “Just make sure your fear doesn’t spread. Keep it to yourself.”

Trevor knew, too, that Ya-Ya wasn’t going to stay with him anymore. Even without light or sight, he could hear her little voice cut: “It’s not the tires. It’s you playing ‘savior,’ Trevor.”

He knew Hailey and Kaya both loved him. Their anger flashed and vanished. What worried him was what he couldn’t know. What state Polly was in. So when he knocked on Polly’s door, even with Crescent beside him, Trevor vowed to stay alert.

(Click here to read the next episode)

Iron Lion Zion

Used to be, Brian and Trevor ran the mountain trail at six am Monday through Friday. But after Awake started performing two Saturday night sets, Trevor asked Brian if he’d run with him on Saturdays too. “It helps me flex all the while.” Brian was glad Trevor asked. They didn’t get enough time together.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Almost nobody from the arts college came to the shows anymore. Why would they? They didn’t worship Trevor. They knew him as an accident prone, women and ganja loving, trickster/prophet.

But the feverish crowd spiraling around and around shaped Trevor’s nightmares. About the same time sheets of light first burst from the sky, astonishing him, he had dreamed that death wasn’t the end. The fiery waving motion that was you alive becomes a radiance of destruction and creation, infinite darkness and infinite life. There is no rest. No escape from the eternal waves.

This Trevor-mania was a test. Any fool could see that. Eventually, the crowd would move on. It would disperse.

Till then, running increased his patience. With Brian nearby, running the same pace, Trevor found moments of freedom. Running top speed, he got bits of stillness.

Driving to the trail, Brian said, “Angelina called a meeting. Me, Hailey, Kaya, and Ya-Ya.”

“Ya-Ya’s car isn’t ready.”

“Angelina’s picking her up in Asheville.”

They both stepped from the car and stretched their arms once before charging uphill. “They’re so afraid of Polly that their fear’s contagious. Angelina’s determined they stop it. Just cease.”

“Why you, though? You’re not afraid of Polly.”

Trevor ducked a branch coming at his face.

“Why would I be?” Brian said. “But Hailey sure is. We had our first fight.”

“Who won?”

“No one. We made up. But Hailey thinks you knew this Trevor-mania would happen. She thinks you’re looking in on people, seeing what they’re up to.”

“Kinda like Carla,” Trevor said. “She’s going with Marvin now. So she asked me to take a peek and see if it was gonna work out.”

At the trestle bridge, Brian watched as Trevor hung over the splintering railing. Getting that massive gravity he loved. He hadn’t done this since he’d found Polly. Ordinarily it annoyed Brian—Trevor acting so reckless he’d kill himself. Today he was hanging out past his waist and waving his arms. “Hey, Trev. Stop it.” Must mean he was unburdened. “Come on, enough!”

He swung back onto the ground. The sun hit his left eye—Brian saw the flash in his brother’s pupil like that in photographs. And then his grin.

“Why are you going to Angelina’s meeting if you don’t think Polly’s a witch?”

“Moral support. And, part of my job, making sure nobody panics.”

“I see.”

“When you see stuff, Trev, it’s not like spying on your friends, is it?”

“Not like watching TV neither. The light burns some truth into me that kinda feels like seeing. Sometimes I get details and sometimes not.”

“Was Polly eating leaves when you found her?”

“No. But she was truly out of her mind.”

“Hailey makes up examples when she’s scared. She said that about the leaves, I guess, because to her Polly’s a wild animal.”

“That might be true,” Trevor said. “I can’t see Polly. She and me are outta sync. I ran off trail and into the woods with a vague idea a kitten was trapped.”

They slowed to a walk when they could see the car. Trevor never got out-of-breath. Brian wasn’t used to so much talking while running. He bent at the waist to get his wind. “A kitten, huh. You looked like you were mauled by a mountain lion.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

All Day All Night

Angelina watched the women leave Trevor behind, making him absent from math class. Trevor had earned A-s for the first semester but he had three more courses to go if he wanted to get into Chapel Hill’s astronomy program.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

And, he needed to move away from the mobs trying desperately to connect with the man who ventured into the universal light, bringing back specific, individual messages along with “one love.”

Earle and Jazmine reported that every Saturday the round dance grew more bizarre, more frenzied. Trevor’s fans now brought hand-held percussion instruments—gourds, rattles and gueros. They no longer stopped in silent devotion during certain phrases, but danced around and around the huge dance hall, adding to the beat and singing the refrains. After the band left the stage, a full song after Trevor disappeared, they refused to stop. Last week, after a phone call from Kaya (in lieu of Angelina), Chief Babylon had declared a curfew: the Avalon must be empty after three am, giving the audience a full hour to clear out.

Lauren was working that Friday’s lunch with Carla. Butternut soup, homemade bread, sandwiches, and carrot cake served beneath springtime’s treetops. Minus Marc Swift, Carla no longer looked soft and pudgy. But she was big and sturdy and her imposing body suggested unflagging energy. Teasing her about a new boyfriend, Trevor was balancing two plates, one for Polly who stayed away.

Twirling to catch Angelina’s eye, the full plates stationary in his palms, he said, “Darling Mommy, Jacob says you’re making the ganja circuit later. Can I come too?”

Angelina said she’d love that. How long since he’d entertained her and her friends, rolling joints and making jokes?

“Polly’s settled. She’s watching movies today but soon I think she’ll be ready to join everybody. Taking it slow, in bits.”

Angelina had ached to help Trevor with Polly after the cuss-cuss at dawn, but then recoiled from the burden. Trevor knew that. Angelina wasn’t afraid of Polly, but Trevor alone was coaxing her back to reality. Why had Ya-Ya, Hailey, and even Kaya, acted as if Trevor himself had slit the tires? They all agreed Trevor was an exalted spirit, and what? Suddenly, they expected him to turn cold on an unbalanced woman, especially after bringing her so much closer to the here and now?

While Trevor was in Polly’s cabin, Angelina had checked the deflated Prius, and phoned her friend at Midas.

Now in the main yard, backlit by the sun as he somehow always was, Trevor was grinning, telling Angelina he was guessing that the tire trouble signaled a turn-around. But he was only guessing. He could never see Polly in the light. Not her and not himself.

Beams flowing around him, from head to toe, Trevor said, “Polly wasn’t born all at once. Her body and soul are still adjusting.”

Angelina tried not to stare; Trevor’s radiance blinded her. He was saying, rest easy; he’d pay the costs.

Angelina said, okay, but she’d make sure Polly paid him back.

An hour later, Trevor was waiting by Angelina’s station wagon. He was smoking a spliff and offered her a hit. One or two was pure uplift, getting purer.

“Already packed it in back.” Opening the car door, Trevor kissed Angelina’s cheek and arranged three tiny daisies in her hair. “I love you so.”

That might have been enough, right then, to prompt her into Polly duty. After all, Angelina knew Polly, and knew what to do when she acted bad. Trevor didn’t say out loud that every person deserved freedom and assistance in life. But Angelina felt his feelings.

He asked if the memory of him naked was still getting between her and Kaya. “That’s the way she is, Trev. She needs a fantasy in bed. And if it’s you, how can I mind?”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Survival

A few hits while going over me calculus. Kaya’s driving me to class soon. She still burns beside me but in her car she says how bad she needs her suffering. She loves feeling desirous.

Same to me. Tell a woman that and the worst you’ll get is a frown.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Whenever I’m away at the UNC campus, Crescent visits Polly. Insurance. Polly’s doing better. Teaching a watercolor class and getting easier with people, especially Crescent, who she calls “my twin imp.”

Uh-oh, Ya-Ya’s outside screaming. Before I can run to her rescue, she busts in, screaming. “Polly slashed my tires. Go see.”

Seems like right away Ya-Ya and Hailey are raging in the kitchen. Hailey’s driving Ya-Ya to work and until she gets her Prius from Midas with four new Bridgestones, she’s not talking to me.

“Only right, sweetheart. Only right.”

Kaya arrives and links arms with Hailey and Ya-Ya. What’s wrong with me, they want to know. Caring for Polly is playing with fire. Am I doing it for pride? ’Cause pride’s a deadly sin.

“Yah, but I’m not proud. More like the opposite. I’m sorry ’bout the tires, Ya-Ya.”

Her teeny, bitty voice is big, her finger in my face. “If you’re not doing it for pride, to prove you can, then why is Polly here?”

“She made a terrible mistake. I’ll buy ya new tires and settle Polly so it never happens again. After that, we’ll ease up.”

I’m following them outside when Kaya grabs my arm. Righteous hands-on. “Check the damage, kiddo.”

Sick to the fullment.

“First sign of trouble,” Kaya says, “and you swore you’d call an ambulance.”

“Trust me. Please. Women.”

They slam their car doors and peel outta here.

Polly’s front door’s locked. After lots of knocking, I run back and pick open a deck window. The sliders pop right away.

“Polly, comma, comma.” I sing a little Bob Marley— “I been search’ the whole darn day for a little woman of mine…mine…mine”

And peek under the bed where she’s lying face down in the dust. “Come on, honey.” I ease her out and up. And the UNC cap I wear to disguise me dreads from the mobs falls off. I dip to fetch it but Polly seizes my hands. She presses them onto her chest, asking me to brush off the dust. But she knows I won’t and let’s me step away.

“Why’d you slash Ya-Ya’s tires?”

“To make her go away.”

“She can’t go anywhere without tires, Polly. Were you angry?”

“I hate her.”

“But she’s good, Polly. When you’re angry, slow down and be patient. Are you hungry?” She drags her feet getting a bowl of oranges.

Taking the bowl from her, I say, “Let’s sit on the deck and rest.” The sun’s up and warm. I peel an orange and notice she’s peeling one with a buck knife.

I make my voice gentle but serious. “Self-control, Polly. Patience and balance. You have to think: inner harmony.”

“Inner. Harm. Money.”

“Don’t think that way. Or you can’t stay here. When people saw what you did to the tires, they were screaming, Call an ambulance, Trevor.”

“For tires?”

“No, fool. For you.”

“I’ll run away.”

“We’ll find you.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.” She’s wiping the knife blade on her skirt. I notice the polished bone casing.

“Is that my dead daddy’s knife?”

“You gave it to me. No take-backs.”

I take off the UNC cap and turn it around. When did I give Polly my daddy’s knife? Ah, right. “To cut apples, Polly, nothing else. You have to vow or I automatically get it back.”

“No take-backs.”

“It’s mine unless you use it only for fruit. Not rubber, string—anything ’cept fruit.”

“Your dead daddy’s fruit knife.”

“Let me keep it for you until people forget about the tires.”

“No. Apples and oranges, that’s all.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

 

Don't Bother Roger

Aunt Clara and Uncle Richard’s son Roger had lived at home like a saint for three months. In January, he could return to college, providing he agreed to daily counseling. Providing he never set foot in a fraternity, let alone a sorority. The entire college would know about Roger’s status and the need for extreme vigilance.

Roger had spent two years in a minimum-security facility. “Over and done,” Roger told his parents, his lawyer, and his ex-girlfriend’s lawyer. “Past tense.”

His mother agreed. Nobody should blame Roger anymore. So why not throw the annual summer party?

Her dearest sister Jane, however, invented countless excuses. Because, honestly, her daughters were only six- and four-years old.

“Nonsense,” Clara said. Best if the family not over-react.

“Just bring the girls.” Their own father said this, and he had never especially liked Jane’s extended family.

Whenever she remembered the party, Jane warned her girls, “Don’t bother Roger.” And, when the day came, she dressed them in fancy frocks with stiff satin sashes and hems to their ankles. During the car ride, she outright pleaded, “Don’t bother Roger.”

The backyard party was crowded but boring. While her parents drank martinis and her sister sat on her father’s lap, six-year old Sadie sneaked inside and upstairs. All the doors were closed except for the last one. Peering into the room farthest from the stairs, Sadie stared at a man lying down, his laptop open. 

“Are you Roger?”

“Yes I am.” Bright-eyed and smiling, he sat up, planting bare feet on the rug.

Sadie squirmed backwards, fooling with her dress’s tied sash. “Are you the same Roger my parents warned me against bothering?”

“Undoubtedly, yes. But you’re not bothering me. Come here and I’ll show you something.”

Sadie frowned but stepped inside.

“Come and sit down.” He patted the bed. “Come on.”

Sadie bounced on the bed, eyeing the laptop.

“It’s not there,” Roger said. “And it’s kinda scary.”

Sadie tapped her Sunday shoes.

Roger lifted the leg of his baggy jeans. “It’s an electronic anklet that sets off an alarm if I leave the house. Sometimes movie stars have to wear them. And, Martha Stewart had one, too, for insider trading.”

“Who’s Martha Stewart?”

“Someone rich and famous for decorating wreaths and flowers and stuff.”

“And the movie stars?”

“Not positive who. Paris Hilton, maybe? Lindsey Lohan—that type.”

Sadie hadn’t heard of them either. “Does it come off?”

“Not yet. But soon. I’ll be free.”

“That’s good, Roger. Uhm, good-bye.”

“Hey, wait. This might sound weird. But don’t tell anyone you saw me, okay?”

“I won’t. My mom would scream her head off.”

(This originally appeared in The View from Here online, and then in issue 6 of magazine’s print version.)

   

Guiltiness

Brian couldn’t believe he was arguing with Hailey. Even when she yelled at him, he loved watching her. Angry about Trevor’s attempt to rehabilitate Polly, Hailey stamped her feet in frustration.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

But Brian had no power over Trevor. “He’s twenty-four years old. He made a mistake at the arts festival, which he admits. How could he possibly have known it would explode into Trevor-mania?”

“He knew, Brian.” Her voice was not loud or harsh, but cutting nonetheless. “Trevor knows everything. He goes into his ‘light’ or whatever and spies on people.”

“Hailey, sweetheart. He doesn’t spy on people.”

“He saw your father choking on a pretzel and Polly eating leaves inside a tree. That’s a step up from seeing whether a girl wants to have sex with him.”

“Are you worried about him watching us in the shower together?” Hailey shoved him then, but not hard.

“Very funny.” She stepped back and touched her face. “I’m afraid of Polly. Angelina said that Polly used to go weeks without talking. Now she’s slashing people’s tires.”

“Polly does that?” This was news to Brian.

“That’s how nuts she is,” Hailey said. “Sometime last night she slashed Ya-Ya’s tires. I drove Ya-Ya to work. Meanwhile, Trevor vows it’ll never happen again. He’ll settle Polly. Well, come on now. What happens when the all-seeing Trevor needs to rest?”

“Practically every day I tell him he has better things to do than try to save Polly. I think he’s serious about studying at Chapel Hill. Which means in a few months, Polly will have to leave.”

“Think how much damage she could do in a few months, Brian. If Angelina didn’t adore Trevor, I mean really adore him, she’d never put up with this shit.” Hailey slammed the door behind her.

This was Brian and Hailey’s first fight. Did she believe Brian could tell Trevor what to do and he’d do it? Where on earth did she get that impression? When Trevor first returned from Jamaica, for a few days, Brian would say things like: Don’t smoke in the car. To no avail. She was right about Angelina, though.

Brian recalled seeing Trevor, who hadn’t even met Angelina before, smoking a spliff with her first thing in the morning. Trevor had pushed Angelina’s hair aside to whisper something and draped his arm around her. And that was it. Brian knew then, that Trevor was nestled under Angelina’s wing forever.

To please Trevor, Angelina had started the arts college, rebuilt the cabins, sold land, sold ganja, and sold a restaurant. Angelina did it for Trevor who did it for Brian.

Now, however, Angelina really was protecting Trevor. She had employed someone to stand at the Consortium’s locked gates, allowing only members and people with appointments inside.

And even though Angelina no longer spoke to her beloved friend Chief Babylon, he had assured Kaya that Officer Parker would be patrolling the nearby highway. It had to be Officer Parker because Officer Ingersoll hated Trevor the way most people loved him.

(Click here to read the next episode)

Thirty Years Teaching

Gwen Willoughby had taught third grade in Port Townsend for thirty years. Long enough so that this year’s class included Gillian Hopkins’s daughter, Tessa. All fall Tessa stood out as a straight-A achiever. Nothing like her mischievous mother, who had been such a terror.

Yet twenty-four years ago, when Gillian was nine, the rules were stricter. Tessa said, “Momma’s thirty-one.”

Ms. Willoughby calculated fast. “That’s correct.”

Unlike disruptive Gillian, Tessa shared Ms. Willoughby’s love of numbers.  “They always make sense.”

“Without fail.” The teacher smiled at Gillian’s daughter. Her best students ended the year two years ahead in math.  

Once upon a time, Ms. Willoughby started the school day with a prayer. No more. Now they had an approved set of environmental rhymes. Fine. But 
Ms. Willoughby still read from “A Child’s Garden of Verses.” Who could forbid the up-in-a-swing poem?

Two weeks before Christmas vacation—now winter vacation—Ms. Willoughby used to hang in the middle window a crystal star her father had given her. Bigger than a fist, it cast rainbows throughout the afternoon.

Ms. Willoughby’s star was banished even before the daily prayer. For a while, she hung it from her kitchen window. These days, it lay in a box Ms. Willoughby never opened.

The last day before vacation, Ms. Willoughby heard Tessa, no, Gillian breaking something. Shattering it. Inside the classroom, Gillian and Phoebe were giggling. 

“Gillian,” she said. “You broke my star!”

“My name’s Tessa, Mrs. Willoughby. And nothing broke.”

“You shattered my Christmas star.”

“Gillian, bring your chair beside my desk and stay still. Class, if you notice her move, tell me. We’ll listen to music while you work in your workbooks.”

Phoebe said, “But Tessa didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Another word and you can sit here, too. Work in your exercise books.”

Mrs. Willoughby found the CD player and put on the “Nutcracker.” Volume loud.

Sitting still proved impossible, but nobody told Ms. Willoughby when Tessa folded her hands, then sat on them, swayed, and cried.

Ms. Willoughby closed her eyes, listening to Tchaikovsky. Tessa needed to pee. After an hour of crossing her legs and holding on, Tessa asked permission to use the lavatory. Half-asleep, Ms. Willoughby’s head flew forward. “Anyone who broke my star, Gillian, can just hold it in.”

Tessa’s tears turned to sobs, which Ms. Willoughby ignored. She wet a little. Again begged permission and was again denied. Finally, Tessa involuntarily peed a lot. It pooled in her socks and puddled on the floor.

Liam sang, “Tessa wet her pants.”

Ms. Willoughby woke from her daze. “First the star, Gillian, and now this. Stay in the chair.

Not until the real Gillian arrived to see what was keeping Tessa did Ms. Willoughby realize her mistake. Red with anger, the real Gillian said, “How dare you!”

Gillian Hopkins remained furious long after she took Tessa home.

Ms. Willoughby apologized. She couldn’t apologize enough. 

(This originally appeared as "Thirty Years" in The View from Here online, and then in issue 7 of magazine’s print version.)

Chaz

Arriving home after our neighbor’s play, “Buddha Revived,” we alert our sixteen-year old: “We’re home!” From the living room, Claire flicks on the lights. “Meet my boyfriend, Reed.”

Seeing him, I notice a person more seductive than credible: angelic, tousled hair, deep blue eyes. Claire’s first boyfriend is as beautiful as she is (and I’m an adoring father).

“Hello, Reed. I’m Chaz.”

Sylvia and Claire laugh in my face. “Chaz? That’s hilarious, Dad.”

“Call him Charlie,” Sylvia says. She punches my arm, still laughing (“Chaz!”).

“My mother Sylvia—Reed; Reed—Sylvia.” Claire’s first reaction still hovers above our heads. “Chaz. Jeez, Dad.”

“Good night, children,” Sylvia says. While she climbs the stairs, I fall into the armchair, and end up staring at Reed’s bare feet. Strong, graceful feet.

Claire, meanwhile, is staring at me. “Go upstairs, Dad. With Mom.”

“Have a drink with me first.”

Reed nods. “Mos def.”

“How ’bout martinis?”

“We’re underage,” Claire snaps.

“Live a little.”

“Martini, please, Charlie,” Reed says.

“Hendricks gin or Belvedere vodka?”

“Stirred or shaken?”  Reed grins straight at me.

“Real vermouth or pretend?”

“Pretend vermouth, real gin.”

Claire says, “Goodnight, you stupid fools.”

Reed leaps up, catching her wrist. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not.”

In the kitchen, I fix the drinks. Reed switches the music station. Claire appears, tugs my shoulder, and whispers, “Have you flipped, Dad? Are you drunk?”

“Now who’s hilarious? Stay with us. I’ll open a bottle of wine for you.”

“No thanks.” She kisses my cheek goodnight.

Reed and I drink martinis and talk Keynesian economics. The boy’s in high school but reads The Financial Times. Ella Fitzgerald is singing, “Anything Goes.”

After three martinis, Reed stretches out on the couch. His eyes roll up, finding mine. If his specific, unsettling affect on me is a variation on common fatherly distress—Claire’s first boyfriend—it’s one I haven’t heard before. Sitting still in the armchair, I’m past terrified. I’m jellified.

Reed comes over and crouches above my loafers. “Most people,” he says, his hands cupping my knees, “aren’t all one way or another.”

Smiling hard, I brush Reed’s palms off my kneecaps. “I’ve heard that.”

Queasy, I let my head drop back against the upholstery. If Claire continues going out with this boy, my troubles will grow worse. And worse.

“Excuse me, Reed.” I step outside the backdoor. Shiver in the cold. Until panic disperses. I sneak upstairs and join my wife in bed. In twenty years of marriage, I’ve never strayed. Not physically. So it occurs to me—straight, gay, who cares anymore?

“Kids today,” Sylvia seems to say.

After five minutes, I hear Reed and Claire talking in her bed, which is acoustically impossible and so must be my drunkenness:

“Was it fun?”

“Yeah,” Reed says. “Of course, next time it’ll be much more.”

(This originally appeared in The View from Here online, and then in issue 7 of magazine’s print version.)

The Water Baby

Vacationing in Bermuda, ten-year-old Lily snorkeled with Liz, her much older sister. Lily had seen stingrays and parrotfish at the aquarium, a sad place suddenly.

In sunlit water, she intruded upon bright patterned schools, the fleeting pop-eyed and no-eyed angels and clowns, the damsel-, butterfly-, and triggerfish, the tiny neons and snaky mudfish. Certainly these creatures communicated. Their language simply eluded her.

And the corals! Either rock or plants but also animals. Forests shifted. Porous stone walls reached for drifting morsels. Flowers waved their fingers. Great caves beckoned her.

Liz tugged Lily’s UV protective shirt: time to quit. Above water, Lily begged, “Just until the sun fades.”

“I’m tired.” 

“Please! I’ll do your fingernails.”

Liz relented and Lily dove into the shifting tide. She swam in circles unable to find the coral. And few fish. The sun shot a shaft of white light into the ocean. Lily swam toward that and everything changed. The water was impossibly clear. Voices gurgled underwater. She comprehended a suggestion to remove her mask.

Transparent but distinct shapes formed. An almost invisible man nodded to her. “Breathe deep and don’t be frightened.”

His name was Zee. A girl named Merra said, “Lily, I knew you’d come.”

A woman, Ondine, stroked her hair. Lily had slipped into a bubble that existed independent from time or space. “Unlike you, we were never born.”

A boy named Blue led her into a “chamber,” which was transparent yet somehow secluded. He spun her around until she imagined shedding her body. She became a whirlpool and then foam. Ripples lapped on the surface when she laughed.

They invited her to join them forever. “Before the sun rises tomorrow,” Zee said. “You won’t find us after daybreak.”

“Think about it overnight,” Ondine said.

As Bermuda resumed, Lily saw that Liz was furious. “What happened to you? I was scared to death.”

Lily told Liz that if she joined them, she could never return. She would exist longer than the ocean. She would be freer than was humanly possible. But she would belong to a separate realm with no bridge to the earth, air, or even, ordinarily, the sea.

Liz scoffed, but then grew hysterical. “Do not go swimming tomorrow. Promise me.”

“So you believe it’s real?”

“No. You’re insane.”

She told her parents, who wondered why she still liked fairy tales.

Before dawn, Lily ran to the beach. She stripped, anchoring her bathing suit with rubber sandals. She left a note between them, telling her family: Don’t be sad.

Underwater, she blinked in terror and almost choked. Then Zee pulled her inside—where Lily and the rest of them rejoiced.

(This originally appeared in The View from Here online, and then in issue 8 of magazine’s print version.)

Many Are Called

During his career at AIG, Thomas had made and spent a fortune. Friar Felix acknowledged that some men didn’t recognize their calling right away. “That’s the Lord’s way. And you certainly seem ready.”

The subway ads were designed for men like Thomas. Do Something Meaningful was the headline. Make Your Life Your Career, the tagline, was sheathed in gold.

“No need for anxiety,” Felix said, preparing Thomas for the Provincial Minister’s inquiry. “Father Donald will decide if the Holy Spirit is present. For we can’t allow hard times to deceive us.”

Thomas, in a flimsy chair facing an imposing desk, sat long enough to ponder if the monks wore different sandals, winter and summer. From a side door, Father Donald entered, a pointed hood and cowl topping his brown robe.

“So, Thomas, what can you offer our brotherhood?”

“Love of God.”

“What of God’s love?” Father Donald’s face sank into his hood.

“God’s love? Not mine for Him?”

“As you wish.”

Thomas wished for water. Sometimes interviewers offered him a glass, but rarely. It occurred to him that the scriptures made much of thirst.

“God’s love,” Thomas said. “Well, God loves everyone.”

“You sound confused, young man, if I may call you young at—” Father Donald tapped the keyboard, “thirty-five.”

“God loves all his children, whom He created equal.”

“Not necessarily, Thomas. God loves those who believe in Him.”

“Doesn’t everyone want to believe?”

“Wanting to believe is one way of not believing.” Father Donald tightened his lips.

“I believe absolutely, Father, or I would not be here. But, if I may, what about the prodigal son?”

“What about it? You may understand the parable, but it’s irrelevant here. We who serve must believe like little children.”

Thomas agreed whole-heartedly. “We’re all children in God’s eyes. We believe in Him as children believe.”

Father Donald’s sandals scraped the floor and his hood tipped forward. “Yet, an innocent child might believe anything.”

“So we believe whatever the Lord asks. Like His sheep.”

“Sheep? Leaders can not be sheep, Thomas. We’re shepherds.”

Flailing now, his blood racing, Thomas raised his voice. “Just how obedient are sheep? With shepherds, dogs, barbed wire…”

“Thomas, you disappoint me.” Father Donald leaned back.

“I realize you mean just the good sheep. Those with herd mentality.”

“Herd mentality?” Father Donald sounded gleeful. “We don’t put it that way, Thomas. Have you fulfilled our study requirements?”

“Yes, Father,” Thomas answered. “Why else would I be going into this sheep thing?”

“The monastery requires vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity. Simple acts of will. Less advertised is our need for creativity.”

And here Thomas had worried about the chastity vow!

Father Donald rose and extended his hand. Thomas rose, too, and shook that hand. “You’re welcome at Mass anytime. And afterwards, feel free to sell the congregation life insurance. Nothing wrong with that.”

(This originally appeared in The View from Here online, and then in issue 9 of magazine’s print version.)

My Ex-Ophthalmologist

My internist referred me to a new ophthalmologist, who noted my astigmatism, told me he’s married, and asked me out. “Nothing casual,” Julian said. “My intentions are venereal.”

“Venereal?”

“Desire, not disease.”

Julian took me to dinner at Orsay and Jean Georges. He’s married and has a daughter, but we got along so famously, they seemed far away.

We traded ironies and smirked at saying the obvious: “Really raining.” “Crowded elevator.” “She’s a bitch.”

After a month, we started staying at the Stanhope hotel, where the sexual force between Julian and me held the planets in orbit. All night.

Over the course of a year, everyone came to know us—Julian and me. This afternoon, Julian presented me with a surprise—our own corner three-bedroom at Fifteen Central Park West. Sixteenth floor. The park’s trees roll endlessly beneath every window. We move in three weeks; he’s leaving his wife and daughter.

I was too surprised to respond. Julian said, “For you. I’m leaving them for you.”

We walked to Jean Georges and he said, “You can’t say no. Think about us. Who has more fun?”

Julian ordered champagne. And then, a coincidence. Effusive Tom Scully, a divorce lawyer who went to Catholic school in Queens with me, looms over our table. How great to see me! How long has it been?

Not long. A cousin’s funeral, last year. Tom Scully’s handsome face turns red. He’s sorry to intrude. But he sees the guys from our class and they wonder about me.

I’ve heard this before from Tom.

 “Wait till I tell them you look the same.” His tall body sways and I excuse myself.

Possibly, Tom wants forgiveness, which after twenty years, I’ll give him. But I can’t hand it to him out of nowhere. He needs to say, “I apologize.” Or even, “We all do.”

At thirteen I looked like I do now. Same big breasts and long legs. Most eighth grade boys’ noses reached near my nipples. Back then, in eighth grade, Tom was the guy who handed me the note.  

You look like a frog,
Smell like a hog,
Poke out your eye
And see if you die.

Every eighth grade boy had signed it. When the girls heard about it, they laughed, and shunned me, too. Even Erin from next door. When someone threw a rock through my bedroom window, I stopped going to school. St. Agnes promoted me to high school despite my lack of attendance.

Thirteen was painful. Most injuries you can’t help. But playground cruelty? A selfish father going after extra play-dates? Julian and I had had fun—nothing serious; nothing real.

When I return and sit down, Tom Scully has left. Jean-George brings us minuscule omelets.

“Julian, how old is your daughter?”

“Penelope? She’s twelve.”

“So besides you, who’s a good ophthalmologist?”

(Originally titled, “Mean Boys,” this appeared in The View from Here online, and then in issue 7 of magazine’s print version.)

Don't Ask Why

April never considered telling her father no. Although she lived a mere train ride away, Anders hadn’t contacted her even when Max was born. But now that her son was six, he invited them kindly. No matter that in thirty-two years, he had only once taken April to lunch, when she was ten. That, and several random, pre-dawn phone calls; a few greeting cards.

On the train Max asked a stream of questions about the grandfather nobody ever mentioned. Why did Anders want to meet Max now? What was a recluse and why did April call him one?

“Don’t keep asking why, sweetheart. Sometimes you have to wait and see.”

But why hadn’t Max seen Insect Collector magazine if Anders owned it? Why did some people collect insects when most people hated them? Why did people have bug fairs? Why couldn’t Max go to one?

“Ask him to take you, honey.”

At Grand Central they took a taxi to West 21st Street. The sidewalks teemed with people; the narrow, towering buildings obliterated daylight.  

Anders’ building looked especially decrepit. They waited long minutes until he opened the door. “Well, well.” He shook Max’s hand and moved to kiss April, who recoiled involuntarily.

In the unkempt studio, April touched her son’s head and knew Max found the shrunken old man amazing. That Anders reeked of alcohol and loneliness didn’t penetrate the boy’s wonder. Whereas April imagined the cluttered space and soiled artifacts springing organically from her father’s leathery hands.

Beneath a gray window a primitive computer and printer sat on a linoleum-topped table. “A young man at Radio Shack provides me with parts.” Anders smiled, showing his grimy teeth.

“Come here, Max.” He steered the boy, waving to include April, toward two cabinets, where a fluorescent lamp brought a spurt of cleanliness into sharp relief.

He opened a thin cabinet drawer, which displayed huge, iridescent beetles.

Max said, “Yikes.”

Anders chuckled or more like croaked. “See these?” He opened the next cabinet with its array of butterflies.

“Wow!” Max’s eyes widened. He peered at the vivid gossamer wings swirling with red, orange, and blue. Patterns like eyes dotted a lot of them.

“Asterope sapphira.” Anders pointed to an especially gorgeous blue butterfly. “Originates in the Amazon.”

“Wow!”

Anders opened every drawer and talked about every specimen. Origins and traits.

Then April forgot herself. Almost unaware, she clenched her fists. “Why, Anders, why? Why now? I mean, why you? Why you jerk! Why oh why ever not?” 

Max was tugging her elbow. “Mommy. Don’t keep asking why. Sometimes you have to wait and see. Sometimes nobody knows.”

(This originally appeared in The View from Here online, and then in issue 9 of magazine’s print version.)    

Precision Cut

I escort William to my station. 

“Make it look like two weeks ago, Nora.”

He’s my only regular client. If his former stylist hadn’t severed a fingertip, I’d be back in Chicago. Luckily, William prefers to look unchangeable. A hyper-regular—he’s in here every two weeks. 

“Thanks for squeezing in my wife. She rarely even touches her hair.”

I don’t tell him that although it’s Saturday, I have no other appointments. Instead, I say, “No worries, William. Anyone can find time when necessary.”

He likes that and sits taller. William wants to hear about me—rather than talk about himself. Or sit quietly. So I tell him about the bad-neighborhood art gallery, and my two paintings there. 

How, he wonders, did I come to subsidize my artwork with haircuts?

“Someone complimented my manual dexterity.” When I was waitressing. “And I applied to the Precision school.”

I don’t say that the Precision school sent me to France for “international” status. Or that I met my boyfriend Alan there, attending a sculpture festival. Since we moved to New York, I’ve paid the rent. For a while, it didn’t matter that Alan’s sculptures were too important for day jobs. He had me half-convinced, in love. But it matters now. Two people can’t live on one man’s haircuts.

“The Precision school. That’s why I chose you, Nora.”

“They say you can’t get certified until you can do it in your sleep.”

William laughs. “Sodium pentothal before final testing?”

“Bet they haven’t thought of that yet.” I hand him the mirror and turn the chair.

“Perfect,” he says, tipping me a huge amount and calling Pratibha. “Ready, sweetheart?”

 Three minutes later, drugs, narcolepsy—not even! Wormholes? Rabbit holes? Who knows? Apparently, I chopped off three lustrous lengths, on top and the sides. It happened so fast even Pratibha was lulled. Before shrieking, “What the hell?”

Recovering, I see this beautiful young woman, fingering bristly patches like wounds.

“Nobody will ever notice,” I try.

But the damage’s obvious. Pratibha has great hair. “Maybe twisted up my mistake won’t show.”

“My husband likes it down.”

What husband wouldn’t?

Half-measures would look awful, which she realizes. And seethes. “Do your damn Precision cut. We’ll hate it. But it will appear intentional. Ugly on purpose.”

The Precision cut looks spectacular on her. “It highlights your eyes. And neck.”

“Don’t make me laugh. William!”

He glances at her and his cold face bobs near mine. His hand swings up and I flinch. Cursing, he backs away. I return his tip and they race out. Becca in front is saying, “A problem?” while retrieving Pratibha’s apron. 

Three more minutes: sickening, prickling skin. In the restroom, I vomit, rinse my mouth, splash my face—my reflection wavering in the mirror.

Tonight, I’ll phone my parents for airfare. 

Coat zipped, I tell Becca, “I’m done. I’m gone.”

(This originally appeared in The View from Here online, and then in issue 8 of magazine’s print version.)    

Cornerstone

When Trevor and the two women returned from the spa, the bashment banishing old angers from Polly’s old cabin had the college rocking as one. They all stopped a beat as Trevor hit the light switch. And then, lights on again, they stared at underage Crescent and middle-aged Polly, who were done up like weird sisters.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Trevor caught Angelina’s eye and signaled, talk outside. She was vexed, just as he had anticipated. He had seen it in the lights but also knew it from common sense, which no longer so sweetly eluded him. No. These days, dreadful reality bothered him all the time.

Furious in the moment, Angelina would forgive Trevor soon. Well before dawn, she’d love him more than ever. Grateful but frightened when he offered to care for Polly.

Pressed beside Angelina, Brian asked, “Mind if I join you outdoors? I’ve gotta hear what Trevor has to say.” Despite having seen his brother woo a figment inside a tree—a lost spirit Brian had unconsciously supposed was Polly—her appearance here was unsettling and even ominous.

On the deck, Trevor smoked a spliff, going for massive intake. He offered it to Angelina and Brian, but they had already smoked plenty. “Angelina, I take the blame. But I just couldn’t see another way to keep her out of Babylon. Let me care for her and I promise I’ll call a hospital at the first bitty trouble. The truth.”

Angelina motioned them to the window. Crescent and Polly were sitting opposite each other, balanced on a small chair’s arm rests, their feet planted on the seat. With their platinum fringed foreheads touching, they whispered and giggled.

“Polly lived with me when Kaya was living with Alec Olson,” Angelina said. “And any reference to Kaya made her rage. Even though Polly and I were never physically intimate. She was too unstable.”

“Crescent’s found a new best friend and that’s all,” Trevor said. “Soon as Ya-Ya leaves for work, Crescent will stop by and put me in the mood. And no worries—it’ll be the farthest thing from pay-back for tonight. Crescent turns on her charms and I bow.”

Angelina shook her head. “Not one of your lovers has ever been jealous, Trevor?”

“No way on earth crazy Polly’s gonna be my girlfriend.”

Brian said, “Trevor, you’re the innocent. All those women and not one jealous symptom? Polly, who was nobody’s lover, was always jealous—which is why she had an angry cabin; I was here in those days.”

Angelina nodded. “She’s insanely envious of affection, Trevor. Now if I’m the target, she can’t stay. But if you are, keeping her under control is gonna take a miracle.”

“No miracles with Polly, mon. I absolutely can not see her in the light. Almost like she doesn’t fully exist.”

Angelina hugged her darling Trevor. “Remember, sweetheart. You can no more save every girl than you can sleep with every girl. Saving a lost soul is up to the Lord and not a prophet.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Punky Reggae Party

Redeeming Polly taxed Trevor’s patience, even though he could see it was going to work. The plan required him not only to stretch the truth, but to hurry all the while. Which wasn’t how he worked, especially since the light showed him what lay ahead. If anything, Trevor moved a beat behind real-time.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Before kissing Kaya and Angelina till later, he invited them to a party for when he and Ya-Ya moved into the vacated cabin.

“Come by this afternoon. Ya-Ya and I travel light. And if everybody smokes good herb and dances like one-love, the cabin will turn into vex-free gates.”

Hearing the women’s glad approval, Trevor hurried away, relieved. Because in truth, he and Ya-Ya had moved in last night, after Awake’s Avalon set.

The angry cabin needed cleaning as did theirs once emptied. And little things took rearranging. Further, Ya-Ya believed, thanks to Trevor’s stupid insinuation, that Angelina had not only already approved the move, but practically requested it.

At noon Hailey and Brian, Jacob and his new woman, Royce and his family, Earle, Jazmine, Destiny, Marvin and Leon, Lauren Clay and her reunited parents, and various art students and teachers arrived for the loving-kindness party, catered by Carla.

With Marvin and Leon toastin’ reggae, everybody dancing, eating, and smoking Jacob’s ganja available from heaping platters, Trevor and Crescent slipped away.

Crescent, who owned a new car after working for two semesters at the Eden Café, wandered off to the parking lot first. Trevor kissed all his women, saying, “Soon.”

At the trail marker, Crescent kept the car warm while Trevor ran through the woods. At the hollow tree, he coaxed weak, filthy, fragile Polly to jump onto his back. The Spa Hotel in Hot Springs closed at four on Sundays but its owners were fervent Trevor followers and would wait straight through till Monday afternoon if he asked. Yet Trevor, who couldn’t remember worrying like this before, succumbed to a terrible urgency. Rescuing Polly bothered him beyond reason. He raced carrying her, and twice she clamped her raggedy hands over his eyes.

Trevor could see other peoples’ future; but not through rocks or trees. So he toppled. A ledge cut his jaw. Branches scratched his neck and his ankle kept wobbling until he stomped the ground, forcing it right. Polly slapped his head and whooped, “Gotcha, Mr. Music! Gotcha!”

He set her in the seat behind Crescent and strapped her in. Crescent, the girl who couldn’t smoke ganja or drink alcohol, because she never knew when to stop, recognized Polly as the woman who had nursed her after her hangovers. “Hey, Polly! Where have ya been?”

“Camping.”

“All right. Looks like you been sleeping under the stars for a month.” Crescent punched Trevor’s throbbing shoulder. “Why didn’t you say we were getting Polly?”

He didn’t know. He didn’t know why he felt so anxious or why his little injuries hurt so much. He had forgotten that Crescent knew Polly.

Pulling into the spa parking lot, Crescent said, “If you get your hair cut short, I will, too.”

“How short?”

“Short,” Crescent said. “And bleached pure white.”

Inside, Trevor ran on the treadmill and watched basketball on television. He swam a mile and dozed in the sauna.

Hours later, the girls met him in the lobby; their fingernails lacquered with sunbursts; their faces painted dramatically, and their caps of platinum hair trimmed sleek.

From the gift shop, he bought them matching shimmering yoga clothes and little black shoes.

Arriving back at the cabin finally, the party still in full swing, Trevor flicked the lights—Crescent and Polly calling out, “Surprise, surprise!”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Comma, Comma, Come Back Here to Me

Sunday, I come to Angelina and Kaya with warm muffins. The recipe and basket belong to Ya-Ya, my only girl who needs nothin’ special.

Ya-Ya she knows ’bout Polly, even though I told Brian to keep it secret. He can’t hide his thinking from Hailey; I knew that. And Ya-Ya and Hailey are close friends.

Didya think I was lying about needing food and clothes to meditate in the woods? Since my main rule is: “Don’t lie and don’t do stuff you hate?”

I take the blame. No other way.

Polly was like a dangerous animal at first. They would’ve locked her up. And then her inner self, which I’m trying to woo back, would be lost forever.

Besides, anyone who thought about it, could see I was making up a story. Hailey saw it. Right after finding Polly, I saw Hailey in the light, shaking her head.

I’ve set out the mugs, plates, muffins—everything we’ll want on the low table. The sunshine’s pouring through the windows, dazzling everything but the couch, which absorbs it. Watching the coffee, I smoke a bit of ganja.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Enough meditation; enough exploring sheets of light. Lately, I don’t look too far ahead. If I cast my sights wide but close ’pon those near my heart, happiness reigns. Past that, into the summer, say, there’s terrible sorrow.

I’ve said it a thousand times, but it remains true: I can’t see myself in the future. In fact, I can scarcely see myself at all.

But other people I see clearer all the time. So where’s Polly? Maybe she doesn’t appear because she’s so unsettled. Polly’s not right inside.

So night and day I’ve called to her truant inner self, the spark that completes her body and soul. But since Polly doesn’t appear in my visions—not even a glint—I could be all wrong. I only risked calling to her spirit because I wasn’t severe enough to turn her straight over to the Babylon system.

Here come the ladies in nightgowns and moccasins.

“Trevor, how sweet. Thank you,” Angelina says as I pour the coffee.

“I should do this every week since our Sundays have changed. But I thought of it this week, because I need a bly.”

“What’s that?” I light the pipe and offer it to them but they’re drinking coffee and enjoying the muffins. “Can Ya-Ya and I move into Polly’s angry cabin? ’Cause with us there, it won’t be angry.”

Angelina nods, like, of course, but asks, “Where’s Carla? I haven’t seen for more than two seconds all week.”

Carla is someone I can see so easily it’s like she’s right in front of my face. So I know she’s working at her restaurant. “Now that Carla owns the Eden, Angelina, she’s through being a young girl.”

“I know that, but still, Marc Swift crushed her self-esteem.”

“Carla’s fine, trust me. If Ya-Ya and I move into the angry cabin, we’ll make it nice.”

“Well, yes. You will make it nice. So why not?” Angelina looks pleased.

Kaya’s had a hand on my leg all this time so I lift it over my shoulder and twine our fingers.

“You know Polly’s disappeared.” Kaya grimaces, part sympathy, part worry.

“Yah, but she’s coming back soon. I think.”

Angelina winks at me. “You know better than we do, Trev. And if you and Ya-Ya want to live in the angry cabin—what a screwy idea, ‘an angry cabin’—it’s all yours.”

(Click here to read the next post)

Put It On

Hearing Brian on their cabin steps, Hailey stopped putting on her sweater, certain something wonderful had happened. Brian stepped across the threshold, bouncing on his shoes’ famous air cushion.

Immediately beside her, he murmured “Ah. Um,” and arranged the orange V-neck over her head and pulled her arms through the sleeves. He smoothed the soft wool along her hips and Hailey sank back on the freshly made bed.

“Good news?”

“Nothing special. Trevor took off into the woods mid-run again. But of course he’s fine.”

“That’s good, Brian. It’s good you're not worried about him. And you shouldn’t be—don’t get me wrong. It’s just that ever since Trevor started his following, nobody questions him.”

“Well, how often is he wrong?”

Hailey smiled because Brian’s unrelenting anxiety had never helped. And when she learned this newly conquered, carefree realm extended to her, too, she had celebrated with him. “Here’s to happiness! Here’s to liberty!”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

But Trevor meditating in the woods aroused Hailey’s suspicions. The food he trucked up there certainly wasn’t for him. Dried apricots and boxes of Parmalat milk? What were Angelina and the rest of them thinking? Hailey appreciated Trevor’s remarkable personality. But the Black Mountain community loved Trevor so much they couldn’t see straight.

Why didn’t anyone except Hailey care that this great lover of women and friend to men would always live apart? Fun, funny, fantastically attractive, Trevor knew perfectly well how alone he was.

He could calm and even carry anyone—except himself, and often said so. But except for Hailey, it seemed nobody heard him.

She hesitated to mention this to Brian because only recently had he overcome his anxiety about Trevor.

The brothers ran together every morning. And Brian told her that besides all the camping food, Trevor had brought into the woods, smocks, hats, mittens, and leggings.

Which to Hailey sounded very weird. While Brian hadn’t thought twice about it. He had been so busy trying to dismiss Marc Swift. The consortium was buying up Marc’s contract, but the man still raged. “Carla gains like what, a hundred pounds? And I’m getting fired? My lawyer will call you.”

“Fine,” Brian told him.

Angelina invited Carla to stay in the main cabin, which sparked Kaya’s jealousy. No more mooning over Trevor, who was now paying Carla private visits; no more teasing Alec.

So once Carla was settled, Hailey asked Brian to check on Trevor’s off-trail journeys. They agreed he couldn’t follow the all-knowing Trevor without asking him first. “Just tell him I’m nosey.”

“Except you’re not.”

No lag time: the next day, Trevor decided to run through the woods instead of along the trail. “Mind if I join you?” Brian asked.

“Dun know. The ignorant spirit up there? Might bring me crosses maybe.”

Brian nodded, yes, a spirit. “Ya must step screechy. Stay quiet an promise—it’s a secret.”

Several feet from the top, Brian hid behind a boulder. Trevor crouched by a tree. From which came a guttural, “Caw! Caw!” Pulling a harmonica from his shorts, Trevor sang “Mellow Mood.”

“…I’ve got love, darling…I’ll play your favorite song, darling…”

And his plea sounded so private, so sacred, that Brian crept away, his spirit heavy.

(Click here for the next episode)

Bus Dem Shut

The next day Trevor asked Carla for walnuts, dried apricots, hard cheese, bread, and a box of milk that didn’t need refrigeration. She was in Angelina’s kitchen, adding sliced mushrooms to barley soup.

“Don’t tell me you already ate all the apples and two pounds of peanut butter!” Carla’s steam-dampened, curling hair widened her big round face as she jabbed a pudgy finger at Trevor’s punctured chest.

“Carla darling,” Trevor asked, “you vexed?”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Angelina clattered down the bottom few steps. “Trevor, were you the one who advised Carla to move in with Marc Swift again?”

Trevor looked at Carla who was roly-poly. Seeing his appraisal, she shoved Angelina. “Can’t you just shut up about that? It’s all you ever talk about.”

Angelina sat at the counter and sighed. “Honey, you’re a full time restaurant owner. You’ve invented, and eaten, countless extra meals all winter. By yourself.”

“So I’m fat. Nuff said?” She grabbed her jacket and stomped outside.

“Wh’appen to pretty little Carla? Maybe Ya-Ya can fix it with nice clothes.”

“That’s an idea. I’ll ask Ya-Ya to fill the store with pretty smocks and stretchwear.”

Angelina owned the boutique in Biltmore Village where Ya-Ya worked. And ever since Trevor met Angelina, who he had transformed from “Nancy,” she had evolved from a lumbering, asexual person into a robust and curvy woman.

Less than a year ago, Carla had been slender. Angelina narrowed her eyes. “Hollis has enlisted Carla in several dance classes and spring is coming. It’s not your trouble, Trevor. But have you looked at Kaya lately?”

“Kaya’s no fatty. I’ve seen her.”

“You certainly have, darling. And ever since you hopped naked into our bed, she dreams of you, not me.”

“Angelina, Kaya’s your beloved lady. She told me so.”

“Well, she hasn’t started dying her hair to impress me.” Angelina fingered her snow white locks.

“Hush, Angelina. I-and-I didn’t break any laws. You only heard the truth ’bout Chief Babylon because we were stripped to bare bones and you know it.”

“Yeah. You’re right about that, Trevor. I wouldn’t have listened. So what’s all this food you want?”

“I meditate in the woods every evening now. The food’s in case I feel like staying there.”

Angelina pinched her upper arm. “Is Jacob’s latest crop making us eat like maniacs? Always before his ganja lifted us right up, no side effects.”

“Ask him. Jacob’s buds get purer and purer. The reason Carla’s chubby is because Marc colds up on her. Carla gets soft and fat and he feels hard and strong. I never told Carla, ‘Go back to him.’ Just, Jah know, ya can’t live with me.”

Angelina nodded and sighed. She packed all the food Trevor could carry and offered to drive him wherever he wanted. Wanting to keep the place a secret, he thanked her, saying he’d rather leg it.

Hoisting his pack, he said, “But if you and Carla go to the boutique tomorrow, can ya drop me off at Miller’s Music? Teddy’s got some new instruments for us.”

A little later, as darkness fell, Trevor climbed the hilltop. Outside Polly’s tree, he unpacked the food and laid it in a semi-circle while stepping aside and singing Bob Marley’s “Nice Time.”

After the first verse, however, Polly yelled at him. “Go away and don’t come back.”

“I brought you some smoke, Polly.”

“And rolling papers?”

“Yah, sweetie. Matches and a flashlight, too.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Could You Be Loved

The light takes over me: sitting in class; loving me sweethearts; or even just talking. Halfway through a sentence, mine or yours, I see unpredictable things happening to everyone but me. These sights are like the opposite of dreams. Nothing’s dim or vague; nothing’s unconscious.

I’ve never known what’s up for me, though. Besides, all my visions might be wrong. They’re flickering images running like little movies inside a light so bright it can’t get brighter.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here  to read the previous one.]

Since our daddy died, Brian has no more reasons for shyness or anger. But saying that to his face would be mean. So I prayed night and day he would bust through worrying. And then I watched him do it. He stepped out of the car and bashed straight through to freedom.

We ran past the trestle bridge and I heard a voice crying in the woods. Soon as Brian shatters his old, choking atmosphere, there’s desperate Polly, a feral creature inside a hollow tree.

Brian didn’t break his stride when I said, “Gotta check the woods.” He turned around, still running, and called, “Okay, see ya.”

I found the tree and Polly ran out so full of fury she ripped into me, tore off the whole front of my shirt. Low to the ground, tracing and cussing like I’ve never heard, she sprang up and stabbed my bare chest with a sharpened stick.

Later, when I came dragging back, Brian didn’t press. Like he’s fully forgotten how to worry. Instead he calmly cleaned me up. Said I looked fine.

Until I can help Polly settle, I’m not telling on her.

Carla’s in the kitchen and I mention—true enough—that I wanna hang out in the woods. “Can I pack some food?”

She gives me peanut butter, a bag of apples, and a little cutting board. “You dip slices in the peanut butter, Trevor, not the whole fruit.”

“Ah yah.” I pack a sleeping bag, load the food into a backpack, and walk the mile to the trail. Dusk falls early in February but I’m wearing the colors.

Waiting on the bridge, I squint into the afternoon sun, checking on her. She’s sleeping in the tree. Her anger’s rock hard but we’re through romping. Because she’s worn out and weak. I leave the apples and peanut butter and cutting board by the tree.

Stepping away as daylight fades behind the mountain, I realize that Polly needs a knife to slice those apples. So happens that I’m carrying my daddy’s buck knife with the steel blade he kept razor sharp. I gaze at the sky and between the trees, trying to see if Polly will get cut. Too vexed for normal life, Polly’s nonetheless dexterous. So I leave the knife beside the apples.

She’s curled up inside that tree but my guess is she’s woken up. “Nice up, Polly,” I call out. “I’m coming every day, five or six o’clock. And I want you to think about this: it’s no fun being angry. No fun being a sinner, either. Anger’s one of the seven big ones.”

Vivi taught me that, long ago when she was a conduit between virtues and vices. To move forward from anger takes patience. Envy needs massive kindness.

But patience? Nobody should be angry if that’s true. ’Cause what’s easier than patience? We’re in no rush. I’m as patient as the rope is long. And Polly’s gonna see that. In a few weeks, she’ll be filled with more patience than anyone could ever need.

(Click here to read the next episode)

Talkin Blues

On Sundays students and faculty ate breakfast and lunch on their own, giving Angelina a chance to use her kitchen. She baked scones and fixed French-press coffee.

She hadn’t spoken with Everett, and wouldn’t, now. Trevor was right. Why she hadn’t seen it without him baffled her. With Alec Olsen who had been Kaya’s lover until a few months ago, and who was so essential to the poetry classes, just waiting to take her back? Not to mention Kaya actually threatening to leave Angelina over her “affair of the heart.”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here  to read the previous one.]

And Everett? Angelina never suspected his wife had left him because of her, his lesbian girlfriend from high school.

Deh-de, Deh-de, Deh-de, tapping both feet down the stairs, Kaya said, “Scones?” and kissed Angelina’s neck.

“Might as well start without him,” Kaya said in the sunny main room. “The Chinese girl, Ya-Ya, has moved in.”

Thank goodness Trevor had roped in his love-life. When Ya-Ya was working in the boutique, he still saw Jazmine, Lauren, and Crescent, but no others. Since half of North Carolina had elected Trevor their messiah, think how easily he might lead masses of people into hysteria.

“Speaking of that,” Angelina stretched her leg, “what’s Everett doing about Polly?”

Two weeks ago Everett had told Kaya that Polly’s sister had reported her missing. And Angelina believed she was hiding nearby.

Trevor knocked on the door, his not quite dready braids damp from the shower. “Blessings, Mommies.” He kissed them and took his seat between them. Turning aside, Kaya bit her lip. She was far from over Trevor—if anything she fixated on him more all the time—but had begged that he treat her just like Angelina.

He stretched one arm over the couch, behind Angelina, and accepted a full coffee mug from Kaya. “Wh’appen with Polly?”

“Who knows if you don’t, Trevor? Isn’t Everett depending on you for a solution?” It amused the women that the police department’s trickiest citizen had saved the chief’s marriage.

“I-and-I no problem. It’s Polly or kill me dead.”

Angelina said, “Margaret’s afraid it will end in catastrophe.”

Margaret, Polly’s older sister, had been Angelina’s roommate at Duke. So it was no secret that Polly wasn’t right. She couldn’t settle into college or keep a job.

Ten years after Margaret became a nurse and married a neurologist, Polly had slashed her parents’ upholstery. This terrified them so much that Margaret took her sister in.

If she and her husband had wanted children, they would not have risked having her in the house. And Polly would have gone to a half-way place. But until assessments were made, Polly stayed with them, apparently recovering right away. Margaret bought her a sewing machine and Polly constructed whimsical women’s dresses, which fetched high prices.

Reclusive Polly lived in that spare room for twelve years without incident. True, she had a habit of cutting herself but not severely.

Two years ago, when Kaya decided she loved Alec Olsen, and the heart-broken Angelina visited Margaret, Polly forgot her shyness. The skinny sister was now a scrawny, middle-aged woman but she giggled, seeing Angelina. And followed her everywhere, reciting Denise Levertov and other women poets from the original Black Mountain College. When Angelina went home, Polly called her and wrote letters.

Soon at Angelina’s Black Mountain lodge, Polly was doing the laundry and shyly registering guests on vacation. Her dresses sold as well here as they had in Raleigh. They weren’t lovers, but Angelina didn’t mind Polly’s company. Putting aside the times when Polly fumed in a solitary cabin. “But hurting nobody.”

“She’s raging now, though,” Trevor said, firing up some ganja. “An unless somebody talks her down, she gonna cut people.”

(Click here to read to the next episode)

Midnight Ravers

Trevor peeled off his muddy sock while Brian drove them back to the Consortium. “The foot’s fine. A few cuts and bumps from rock-stones is all.”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

“I don’t know what you tangled with,” Brian said. “But it wasn’t just rocks and twigs. Nothing smaller than a bear could have torn your shirt off like that.”

“Brian, will you keep quiet what happened? Everybody knows too much about me already.”

“Trust me.” Brian parked and indicated that Trevor should wait: he’d help him so Trevor didn’t need to hop to his cabin. Inside Trevor’s bathroom, Brian dabbed his brother’s cuts and wounds with antiseptic. Seeing that his foot and ankle weren’t sprained, Trevor was set. In the last few months, he’d had full rounds of rabies shots and tetanus boosters. One doctor had prescribed a series of antibiotics, just in case. The puncture wound just left of his breast bone looked deep.

“Keep an eye on that one,” Brian said, scanning the cabin’s spotless glass walls.

“Wanna smoke?” Brian had to ask. This wasn’t even new anymore.

“Math this afternoon,” Trevor said. “Maybe there’s enough time.”

In the kitchen Trevor lit his pipe and passed it to Brian. Fully dressed, Trevor looked fine—and not like he’d been mauled by an angry mamma grizzly. The cut on his cheek could be anything.

Saturday night then he performed with Awake same as ever. Now the band played two sets and Alison the manager sold tickets to their shows, twenty-five dollars apiece. Two drink minimum but the bartenders said Trevor’s crowd only drank bottled water.

The band’s CD was selling so fast that mailing it out became Destiny’s part-time job. But on stage Leon and Marvin featured Bob Marley songs over their own. Earle’s chants and drums still opened and closed the show.

The audience stood still when Trevor sang:

“Most people think, Great God will come from the skies, Take away everything And make everybody feel high. But if you know what life is worth, You will look for yours on earth…” 

When they were not still with devotion, the audience danced feverishly in a deliberate effort to rejoice. They didn’t touch or take partners but wound around in a circle that rhythmically curled and unfurled.

Brian watched from the cat-walk as they danced and stopped in reverence, danced and stopped. He had listened to Trevor singing Bob Marley songs for so long, with the band and solo, that sometimes the lyrics dallied in his head. He knew how biblical the words were. Bob Marley’s songs told about slavery and freedom, poverty and revolution, corruption and redemption, and Jah’s love. A friendly, seductive beat to rock the world. So all night, from above, Brian saw the people dance and stay still, dance and stay put.

Then Earle started his last chant and Trevor disappeared. The audience stared at the spot on the stage where he had just stood. They remained silent through the last refrain and didn’t move while the other band members packed up. For an hour after Awake had departed, the Avalon staff kept the quiet mob from the dark stage where they begged to leave a personal item, a token of themselves. Just this once.

“Sorry.” And finally the people filed out.

How could Brian ever worry about his little brother ever again? The man played his music completely unfazed by such weirdness. Their crew made massive money. And Trevor would just smile and rest easy. Saying he “feel no way” about it.

(Click here to read the next episode)